Thing 14: Valentinepost

Valentine Valentine suffered from an unfortunate archery accident when she was 15 years old that severed the external pterygoideus muscle on her left cheek and left her with a slight tic for the rest of her days. Her parents were simple folk who thought it would be a good idea, kind of clever, to name her after the day she was born. Every year for her birthday she got chocolates and a dozen red roses. She grew to hate roses, eventually. Though she grew fond of orchids, and she never lost her taste for fudge. Her friends call her Val. She is a native of St. Petersburg, Florida and somewhat militantly against matchmaking. She doesn't like to get involved in other people's relationships. She says people should make their own mistakes. She has a kind of funny smile, a strange dimple seen at happy hour when someone tells a dirty joke. She appreciates the audacity of poor taste, though she never laughs out loud. Valentine drinks dry martinis, never the kind of syrupy pink concoctions with umbrellas or assorted fruits some others throw down. She sells life insurance but she's not what you call a soft touch. She avoids the phrase "loved ones" and talks to you straight about aging and death, her long fingers finding your place on the actuarial table. She's good at what she does, and no nonsense.